


Her shape draws near

by WerewolfsOne



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Chronic Pain, Friendship, Gen, Healing, Recovery, Team Bonding, Team Dynamics, Vulnerability
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:13:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24397108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WerewolfsOne/pseuds/WerewolfsOne
Summary: Fran seems impenetrable as an ivory tower to those who don't know her, as most viera do. But she is as much a knight as Basch, a pirate as Balthier; she knows the burden of responsibility as Ashe does. And in ways she tries to bury, she is as much a child and orphan as Penelo and Vaan. She sees the parts of herself that are intimidating, recognizes the cold scars of the Green Wood, and vows to do the opposite of her instincts. If the Wood would have her ignore these humes as her inferiors, she will instead embrace them, and take the steps forward toward intimacy that they are too hesitant to take toward her.
Kudos: 8





	Her shape draws near

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know when I might finish this. Someday there will be five chapters, one for each party member. When the mood comes where all I can think of is Fran, that is when I will write more.

Phon Coast, sunset. Basch had taken the opportunity of the hustle and bustle of the campfire-building to slip away, with the intention of unfastening his armor and washing his face and hands alone and quickly before rejoining the group. Yet when he had settled down into the soft sand, and gazed out at the ocean, he had been overcome by the tiredness plaguing him since his rescue from Nalbina. His limbs might as well have been made of stone, and all his joints ached and sent sharp pains as the day wore on. His body begged him to rest, and the pain wore down his mind as the hours ticked, though it could not stop his determination and sense of duty. And so instead of stopping or moving forward he stalled. Here he was sitting, contemplating nothing, when Fran came upon him. 

She came up behind, walking with confidence over the sand despite her seemingly inappropriate footwear. She leaned over and placed something down next to him, and when his brain finally kicked into gear and he looked down, he saw a "plate" of hot food (cockatrice jerky, freshly cooked fish, a handful of berries and nuts from their travel stock) arranged neatly over a clean cloth and served on a spare greave.  
Fran, without a word, had moved in front of Basch and dropped into a squatting position, then began to pull his boots off. Startled but not sensing danger, Basch couldn't help but start, mouthing a silent Ah!, and with some confusion and partial jest managed to say with all the dignity he could muster "Lady, you steal my garments?"

"I come to your aide. Your sense of duty and pride is protected, for I too am a warrior, and one needn't keep one's guard up for a fellow swordsman or woman. Ease your tension, knight. Eat." Her voice was quiet but deliberate. Her words seemed at the ready and she showed no hesitation, and he guessed she had made up her mind on helping him some time ago, if not already chosen exactly what she would say to him when he inevitably protested. She gestured lightly at the food before unbuckling the first greave from his leg gently, laying it face down on the sand next to his boots and tucking all of the buckles in so they would not be invaded by sand and grit. Then she shifted slightly and went to work on the next greave, fingers moving deftly, her long clawlike nails expertly prying open the pauper's uneven, makeshift knots and straps.

Basch was a bit stunned. He was also a bit ashamed, imagining how hindered he must appear that she would come to him as such, and looked back at the campfire instinctively, to see if anyone watched them now. But the light had been fading quickly, and they had quite the blaze going. Perhaps he had been sitting by the shore longer than he thought. But to their advantage now, as seeing any details would be hard from such a distance in the early evening haze.  
Fran had finished the greaves, looked up at him. 'Worry not, for they notice not. Balthier has them occupied with a daring and theatrical tale of a handsome and heroic sky pirate, whose identity I am not sure of." They both grinned a quiet smile at her jest. "And I told your Lady Ashe that I would at present break bread and tend my weapons with you, so she would not worry of your wearabouts." 

Basch gave a chuckle, and then a sigh. His anxieties and embarrassments had already been accounted for, each tied in a little bow and ready for his return on his own time. He really had let time get away from him, but it could not at this moment bother him when his body and soul were so grateful that he could, for even the briefest time, sit with his eyes closed and think of nothing. The sound of waves pushing and pulling at the sand washed over him, and he let it erode just a little at his awareness. Fran leaned closer and took his arm that wasn't near the plate of food she brought, turning it gently. Her grip was so strong; while many parts of her where undeniably womanly, and Basch, like the rest of them, could not help but notice her toned and shapely rear end when they spent days and days walking and fighting side by side. Yet many times seeing her silhouette still made his mind think her a man from the corner of his eye, for her height and long limbs alone. Her physical strength was equally impressive, and just by her handling of his tired limbs he sensed she would best him in hand to hand combat if they were forced to fight- though, in his current state, he would bet even Penelo could get some good jabs in against his aching wrists, knees, shoulders...

"Eat," Fran said gently, and that was enough. He accepted her kindly ministrations and her matronly instructions. Feeling a bit like a young boy under his governess's watchful eye, he scooped almost all the dried berries and nuts with his free hand and downed them in a gulp, then as delicately as he could scooped up the fresh fish and ate near half of it in a heartbeat. Its warmth was soothing and he savored it, barely tasting but enjoying all the same. She was right, it was easier to accept aide from a warrior, though he still could not imagine a judge or fellow knight showing such vulnerability, nor forgiving to see vulnerability in them. It was not the way of Archadia, and he felt the need to hide his pain from Fran, make sure she knew he was still capable in battle and as an ally to be trusted to have her back.

"Do your people tend for the weak this way?" He asked a little defensively as she pulled off his other brace, leaving his arms unencumbered to finish off the fish. She waited for him to scarf down the jerky as well and then offered him a waterskin, which he took and tried to gulp down the refreshing liquid slowly, as if he hadn't felt suddenly parched to the bone. 

Waiting patiently for him to finish his bite and drink, still squatting next to him, she shook her head. Her eyes flicked to the sand beneath them, and he recognized in her expression shame, much similar to his own that he'd suppressed since she had approached. Her voice was less certain and Basch could tell she was drawing the words out slowly, fishing them deliberately but reluctantly for she was not pleased with what they had to say. "No. The Wood does not allow for weakness, in any form. If one cannot function in their role and requires extra assistance, they will be abandoned. Many chose to leave the Wood of their own accord, if they are able, to avoid the pain of being cast away like a broken bow." 

Basch was surprised at this. He knew their ways where different, but he hadn't expected such callousness. "But the lady we helped in the village, the salve-maker?"

Fran nodded. "Most would know about her condition but would look the other way until they no longer could. She is lucky she had a friend willing to speak to us, to outsiders," -she says the word with a shiver and Basch wonders if Fran still feels pain remembering she is no longer one of them- "on her behalf. Now she will still have a place in the Wood, but all will know she needed assistance to stay. She has many more obstacles before her."

Basch was a little taken back by this. He'd left the woman with the feeling they'd done a good service for her, hunting down her seven-year bunny, but now doubted how much good one deed had done when compared to a lifetime of need when living in a place that would not accommodate her. Would she always feel like a burden to her loved ones? Perhaps Basch might see her wandering the streets of Archadia someday, selling salves on the street corner. He hoped so, though he guessed it was no so easy a decision, to leave your friends, family, your home behind, even when they would rather you be gone. A part of him longed every day for a home, a community, and he knew he did not possess the strength to walk away from one, even one that would treat him poorly. Here he was, fighting even now for a nation that would betray him, use him as a scapegoat and lock him, innocent, in prison for a lifetime, if not outright kill him. Maybe the viera lady would spend the rest of her life there, kicking and clawing and refusing to be left behind until she no longer could.

"Humes would call us callous," Fran continued softly, staring into the middle distance, "and they are right. The Wood gets no benefit from a viera who cannot hunt, and so She feels grief when they die, but die She lets them. I feel a defiance to Her, when helping you now, though I still must remind myself to do so. It does not come naturally." 

Basch could feel himself clam up at her openness to talk about such things, about letting him into her own thoughts and feelings in such a personal way, and how close she was drawing to him now. He was not accustomed to vulnerability nor physical closeness, and he had no responses prepared. She reached up to his chest, next, leaning close, and began unfastening his pauldron. 

"What of hume society?" Fran asked gently, focusing on her task at hand. Basch was glad of the low light to hide his reddening face. In a way he felt like a child, letting her help him. But she had taken such authority in the matter that she had left hardly any room for him to wiggle away under false pretenses of politeness, and he felt a relief that she had removed the burden of having to ask for assistance. Basch would never have asked, he knew this of himself, and she seemed to understand that.

"It does give the impression of cruelty when a society openly discards those who aren't proper cogs," Basch conceded, trying to look anywhere but her eyes as she was so close to him now. Then having to look away from her chest as well, as it was almost right even with his eye line and was a pleasant place to look, and finally settling for the flowy gossamer fabric over her stomach. "But hume society is rarely better. Only in the little villages of Giza plains, and some of those lost ones in Rabanaster's Lowtown, have I seen people take such care and attention to their sick and elderly. In Giza there is a place for everyone, no matter the smallness of their communities, and it is a community matter to care for anyone who can't grow or tend or hunt, for any reason. They do so with pride and love, and the people in question are an active part of village life. In Archadia they'd rather sweep them under the rug, and while we would like to pretend that is a step above the Viera way, it is of the same way of mind. If one cannot be productive to society, there is little value. They are an embarrassment, an extra growth better snipped away before it festers. If they are lucky enough to be wealthy they may be hidden away for their entire lives in comfortable seclusion; if they are poor they rarely live long."  
Balthier could feel a sense of dissonance speaking about this kind of thing openly. He was still fit enough to fight, he insisted to himself. But he didn't have his entire life ahead of him any more. How different he felt at forty than he had a twenty. Would he even have another twenty years left in him? The life expectancy of knights and judges was not a long one. And the "retirement" of being too injured or maimed to be useful was one of shame. He burned with that shame now, and put a hand over Fran's as she lifted the pauldron over his head. "Please, lady, you've done much and I am grateful. Allow me the dignity."

Fran immediately withdrew, though she did not get up and leave as Basch had expected. When she knelt away from him, watching as he pulled the pauldron and then the chainmail from his body himself, trying his best not to grimace. Little tingles of pain shot along his wrists and fingers, his shoulders and neck fought to cramp and spasm, but he persisted until he was sitting in just his dingy undershirt and shorts. 

"I have one last gesture of assistance, if you will have it," Fran said gently, before he could truly take in how undressed he was in a beautiful woman's presence.  
Basch would have said no, but a sudden peal of laughter erupted from the campfire, and he was content the others were still distracted. "I will, Fran formerly of the Wood."

She took his hand in hers, gently massaging each joint of his fingers, hands, wrist. His rough, thick skin resisted, but after a moment it started to relax him, the gentle pressure a soothing relief to the prickly pain he'd been dealing with all day. She moved to his arm, pressing tenderly into the tense muscle, and with a flourish and flick of her fingers a green light erupted from her hands like a starburst, before sinking into his flesh with the cold-warm sensation of peppermint oil. Basch could feel the relief instantly, the contrast between his massaged arm and the neglected one. She released his arm and he flexed it a few times, impressed. "I did not guess a simple cure spell would be effective," Basch mumbled to himself. 

"It will not erase the underlying cause, if it has not already been healed by magic. But if worked into the flesh properly, it can provide relief, and a better chance to heal given the time to do so." She gestured for his other arm and he happily offered it. It took a few minutes of her expertly rubbing and squeezing, in a way he found almost comical, but by the time she was done his hands were pain-free. He took a deep breath, savoring the sweet nothingness of not being in pain, at least in one place on his aching body.  
Fran picked herself up, standing tall above him. Basch did the same, or at least attempted to, though his newly relaxed muscles and still-fatigued body fought him. A dark arm stretched down into his vision and he accepted it, leaning into her sturdy strength to lift himself off the ground. 

"I will take my leave," Fran said simply, and began to walk off as curtly as she had come.  
Basch felt a tug deep inside and could not help but call out. "Fran," his voice cut into the night.

She turned quick but silent back toward him, haloed in dancing firelight, reminding him of classical Archadian paintings of old saints and godly creatures sent to tend or punish humes for hubris. Be she fiery angel or repentant devil? Having gotten to know both her sure step and the ghosts that haunted her, he wondered which she might more likely think of herself.

Basch had no other words but a brief but sincere "Thank you," giving her a stiff but formal bow.  
Silhouetted against the fire behind her, Fran's dark frame stayed still for a moment, and Basch had time to awe at the intimacy this tall inhume warrior had displayed for him this evening. Then she, imitating him as best she could, did a little half-bow in his direction, before those long legs carried her back to the campfire.


End file.
